"Then how—how—?"
"I just came. What made you think you could get away from me?"
"I wasn't—getting away," she returned with difficulty. "I was just tired—and I came here to—to rest—and to work," she concluded, lamely. "You didn't need me."
"Not need you," he cried, stretching his trembling hands toward her.
"Oh, Rose, I need you always!"
Slowly the colour ebbed from her face, leaving her white to the lips.
"Don't," she said, pitifully.
"Oh, I know," he flashed back, bitterly. "I've lost any shadow of right I might ever have had, because I was a blind fool, and I never had any chance anyway. All I can do is to go on loving you, needing you, wanting you; seeing your face before me every hour of the day and night, thirsting for you with every fibre of me. All I have to keep is an empty husk of memory—those few weeks you were kind to me. At least I had you with me, though your heart belonged to someone else."
"Someone else?" she repeated, curiously. The colour was coming back slowly now.
"Yes. Have you forgotten you told me? That day, don't you remember, you said you had loved another man who did not care for you?"
Rose nodded. Her face was like a crimson flower swaying on a slender stem. "I said," she began, "that I had loved a man who did not care for me, and that I always would. Wasn't that it?"
"Something like that. I wish to God I could change places with him."